The Steward's Son
by Henry Plantagenet
Summary: Denethor as a young man - exploring his relationship with his father, wife and sons.
1. The Steward's Son

"I am not going to live much longer and I wish he were here to help you," said Lord Ecthelion II, of Gondor.

He was talking to his son of the mysterious 'Thorongil' who had served him with great loyalty and courage for a great many years. The Steward of Gondor thought of the tall man with the kingly face and dignified demeanour, who had served him so well. And then he looked at his son. Compared to his memory of Thorongil, his son looked mean, puny and vicious.

The Steward of Gondor sighed, thinking that it was indeed fortunate that his son could not read his mind. But his son sensed what he was thinking and hated him for it. It was unfair, thought Denethor, so terribly unfair that his father, whom he admired so greatly, should think so little of him. His eyes flashed pure venom at his father.

"I do not see why you should hold Thorongil in such high esteem, father. I am, perhaps, not all that you wish me to be. But I would never do anything so cowardly and dishonourable as to attack a harbour city by night and burn its people alive in their sleep."

"My son, these are hard times and we must do what we can to protect ourselves from the shadow that draws ever nearer… Soon, the responsibility will be yours. And how I wish you had someone strong and loyal to help you, as Thorongil helped me."

"I trust that you did not summon me to your presence simply to talk of Thorongil's greatness," asked Denethor, with mock politeness.

"Indeed, I did not," said Lord Ecthelion. "But since you repeatedly try to provoke me to anger, again and again…"

Denethor bowed, a sarcastic smile on his lips. Lord Ecthelion acknowledged his bow with a nod.

"…and since you are not in the mood to have a serious discussion with me on the affairs of state, we will defer our discussion to a later time."

Denethor bowed low.

"As you wish, father," he said, and turned to leave.

"Wait," said Lord Ecthelion. Denethor waited.

"How is your little one? How is Faramir? It must be wonderful for you to be a father again."

Oh yes, thought Denethor. It's wonderful to have another sphincterless, slobbering infant about the place, just to make sure that my wife has no time at all for me.

Sometimes, when she was busy with their sons, he wanted Finduilas. He wanted her so much, he could have cried.

"Yes, it's wonderful, father."

Noting the sarcasm in Denethor's voice, Lord Ecthelion looked at him in surprise. Had his son no finer feelings at all? What objection could he possibly have to being a father? What could he have against an innocent infant, barely a few months old?

The Steward of Gondor looked rather sadly at his son.

"You may go, my son."

"Thank you, father," said Denethor with elaborate courtesy, and left the room.

Denethor ran up the spiral stairs to the top of Minas Anor, the Tower of the Sun.

He sometimes felt that the room at the top of the tower was the only place he had to himself in this whole blasted citadel. He paced about the room angrily, the hot sun blazing down through the wide windows on his flushed cheeks. Denethor reflected that to make himself miserable, all he had to do was to spend five minutes with his father. His father made him fell like a piece of filth on the floor, or a dead insect squashed on a wall.

The people of Gondor thought of their beloved Lord as a good person, even a great person. But would a truly great person make his son feel like this? Of course not. Of course not. He felt so puny, weak and helpless. Was there nothing or no-one to help him become powerful and strong?

Here was the future Steward of Gondor, stumbling around the palantir of Anarion in a blind rage… The palantir of Anarion. Denethor stopped and looked at it. This was, after all, a legitimate weapon used by the great Anarion to help defend his realm. It had gathered to Elendil's heir all the knowledge that gave him his power…

And it was here in the Tower of the Sun. It was his to use, if he wished it.

Denethor opened the covers and tentatively ran a shaking hand over the hard, smooth surface of the seeing stone. It was dark, lifeless. He nervously closed his eyes, hesitant to look into the depths of the palantir. He felt like a child on the brink of a dark abyss, too frightened to look down into it.

He thought he heard the sound of footsteps coming up the tower – he wasn't sure. Denethor hurriedly pulled the covers back over the stone. He turned his back to the door and gazed unseeingly out of the window, his fists clenched. He tried unsuccessfully to compose himself, to calm himself down. The footsteps did not appear to be coming up the tower after all, but he did not uncover the palantir again. His hands that gripped the sill were shaking – trembling…

"My Lord…"

The voice was quiet, respectful.

"Yes?"

"My Lord, the Lady Finduilas requests your help…"

"My help?"

"Yes, my Lord.

The young messenger scuttled away before he could be questioned further. The Lord Denethor's flashing eyes had terrified him.


	2. The Steward's Son 2

Even before he entered the room, Denethor figured out what she wanted his help with. He could hear it on the stairs and outside in the corridor – it was Boromir. The boy was kicking and screaming, punching his mother with his fists. He was too old to do that now, thought Denethor. He didn't know his own strength. He was hurting her.

Denethor rushed to the rescue. He gave the boy a resounding slap on the face. He had never hit him so hard before. Boromir recoiled in terror and pain and ran precipitately from the room.

That took care of Boromir. But now he had Boromir's mother to deal with.

"It had to be done," he said in his own defence. "Your tender talk is most ineffectual. That was a disgusting display of temper…"

"That was a disgusting display of temper on your part," she said, coldly.

His eyes flashed. "I'll show you a disgusting display of my temper…"

"I've got to go find him," she said, still quietly. "You hurt Boromir. You had no right to hit the child so hard. You had no right to hit him at all." And she was gone.

Denethor sank down onto a long, low couch. Again. He had done the wrong thing again. When would he ever learn to stop himself before he hurt his wife or his son in some fresh, new way?

A baby gurgled in the cradle beside him. He had two sons now. He stood up and looked down at the baby, smilingly holding his finger out to him. The baby took it in his little fist - and was he smiling back? It certainly seemed as if he was.

"Faramir," said Denethor, "my baby… I haven't done anything to hurt you yet. And I pray, oh how I pray, that I never will…"

Hearing a sound behind him, Denethor turned to see a sullen-faced boy at the door.

Boromir had come in search of his mother and obviously wasn't too happy to have found his father instead. Denethor wasn't too pleased to see his older son, either. When he was dreaming of the perfect relationship he hoped to have with his second son, it was not very pleasant to have evidence of his prior mistakes thrust in his face.

Perhaps Boromir's presence here was a sign. A sign from the Valar that he would never be the kind of father he wanted to be. The powers that be were mocking him. 'Look,' they seemed to say. 'Look at the mess you've made the first time around. Your older son doesn't talk to you at all – one might even say that he hates you. So how do you hope to do better with your younger one?'

Denethor swallowed his anger and his guilt and spoke to the boy pleasantly enough. "I've never seen you act like that before… is something the matter, Boromir? Is something worrying you?"

Boromir looked at him with suspicion. Could he risk telling his father what was bothering him? Would his father understand or fly into a rage? Boromir remained silent.

Denethor sat down and looked at his son. "I hurt you… I'm sorry…"

Boromir fingered his bruised cheek and his eyes filled with tears. Not wanting his father to see this sign of weakness, he left the room, before his father could speak further. In his haste, he slammed the door without meaning to. Denethor stared angrily at the door. He hated it when the boy slammed the door in a fit of temper like that.

A loud wail rose from the cradle. Faramir had been frightened by the sound of the door. Denethor walked to the cradle again and looked down at its occupant, who let out another wail. "You took the words out of my mouth," he said to Faramir as he gently picked him up and rocked him in his arms.


	3. The Steward's Son 3

Denethor felt a sense of peace come over him as he worked quietly in the garden he was creating for Finduilas. With his trowel, he dug a little hole in the fragrant earth and placed a seedling in it. He steadied it in the soil by gently patting handfuls of earth around it.

This was his secret way of making amends to his family when he felt that he had hurt them.

Every time he felt he'd done something wrong, Denethor would go out into this little garden and plant something beautiful for Finduilas or Boromir. The more he'd hurt them, the more beautiful the new plant would be. He poured all his guilt, and all his sense of inadequacy into the creation of this little garden for those he loved most.

As he worked, Finduilas came out to him. She sat down on a wooden bench and smiled down at him as he worked. "Your garden is so big now," she said, "and so lovely… there are so many beautiful plants in it…"

His trowel dropped from his hand. The garden was so big now. She didn't know that every plant in the garden represented something he'd done to hurt someone. And there were so many beautiful plants in it. The more beautiful ones were those he'd planted when he'd hurt them more. He had no right to treat his family like this… what his wife had said had shown him what kind of a person he was.

Finduilas wondered what she had said wrong. She had simply made a commonplace remark about the garden, and there he was, looking utterly miserable.

"Come, sit by me, my love," she said gently. He gave her a wan smile as he stood up and walked to her. She looked up at him in affectionate concern, as he stood before her.

"O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,  
Alone and palely loitering?  
The sedge has withered from the lake  
And no birds sing."

He smiled. He loved it when she spoke poetry to him.  
"Your voice is like music, my beautiful Finduilas."  
He sat down beside her.

"Come," she said. "Tell me what worries you."

"Oh Finduilas, how I wish that could take you away from this stone city to a fresh, fragrant mountainside and surround you with beautiful growing things. There you would grow strong, you would thrive…"

"But have I ever said to you that I am unhappy here?"

"No, but I know it."

"How could you know it, if I have never said so?"

Denethor sighed. He didn't need her to tell him of it. He could see it for himself. This wretched place made her wilt, like a delicate flower in the blazing sun.

"I am cursed," he said. "I am doomed to spend my life pitting my meagre strength against the Great Shadow of Mordor…and I must spend my whole life fighting it, although I know for certain that it is too strong for me, and it will break me in the end…  
And why, my love, why must I inflict this curse on you, and on the children too…"

"You are strong," she said. "Stronger than you think…"

He shook his head. "If you would know the true worth of the wretch sitting beside you, just think of the way his father looks at him – the revulsion, the disgust…"

"Hush," she said, taking his clenched fist in her hand and smoothing his long fingers out. "I know that the Unnamed will find you to be a more formidable adversary than any mysterious Thorongil…"

"And how does my lady presume to make a military judgement so different from my father's?"

"She knows that certain of her prickly husband's more unattractive qualities will prove to be invaluable in the fight against the Unnamed."

Denethor's eyes were smiling now. Finduilas could say anything about him. Anything she liked. Because he knew she loved him.  
"And what are these qualities you speak of, my lady?"

She smiled at him affectionately. "His stubbornness, his cursedness, his grim tenacity of purpose… when he turns his venom on Mordor, I wouldn't like to be in the Unnamed's shoes…"

She could feel his lanky frame shaking with laughter now, as he leaned comfortably against her.

She was right, he thought. She was always right. And oddly enough, she loved him despite all those 'less attractive qualities.' Finduilas did not love some idealised picture of him that lived in her imagination. She loved her prickly, venomous husband for what he was. Before he knew what he was doing, Denethor had taken her tenderly in his arms and was giving her a prickly, venomous kiss.

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Finduilas' poem is a quotation from 'La Belle Dame Sans Merci,' by John Keats.


	4. The Steward's Son 4

Boromir watched in awe as his grandfather stood on a high platform of white marble, inspecting his troops. Lord Ecthelion was tall; he was clad in shining armour, his long sword sheathed at his side; his golden shield flashing like fire the reflected rays of the sun.

"Ride forth, ye people of the Tower of Anor!  
Your watch will not be in vain…"

Lord Ecthelion raised to his lips the horn of the elder son, bound with silver and written with ancient characters. Boromir gave a shout of excitement as Lord Ecthelion blew a stirring tone on it. The soldiers of Gondor raised their swords in the air, keen blades glinting in the sunlight, saluting their Lord. They rode out of Minas Tirith, their hearts swelling with pride, their heads held high, to do their Lord's bidding.

Boromir thought that his grandfather looked like the images of Isildur and Anarion as they stood carven in their majesty in the halls of Minas Tirith. Lord Ecthelion watched until his men were out of sight and then turned his attention to the little figure that now stood by his side. Boromir bowed respectfully to the grandfather he admired so much. Lord Ecthelion bowed in grave response.

"Grandfather, when I grow up, will I be as tall and handsome as you? Or will I just be like Daddy?"

Lord Ecthelion smiled. "You will be Boromir – you will be taller and stronger than both grandfather and Daddy. And when you blow the great horn of Gondor, you will strike fear in the hearts of our enemies."

"Your great horn will one day be mine?" Boromir's eyes shone as he looked at the great curved horn of the wild ox of the East.

Lord Ecthelion knelt down on one knee and gravely presented the horn to his grandson.

"It is yours now."

Boromir looked up at his mother, unsure if it was permitted to accept his grandfather's gift. She smiled and nodded. Feeling his grandfather's hand gently touch his cheek, Boromir looked into his grandfather's smiling, kindly eyes.

"I present the Horn of the Elder Son to Prince Boromir of Gondor." Lord Ecthelion bowed as he presented it again to Boromir.

Boromir drew himself up to his full height and took the horn in his hands. It was heavy – almost too heavy for him to carry. But Boromir held it proudly, as if he were already a tall man of Minas Tirith. He saw himself in his mind's eye, dressed in shining armour just like his grandfather; standing on the marble platform, inspecting his troops. Boromir raised the horn to his lips. He gathered a deep breath, blew with all his might… and made not a sound.

Lord Ecthelion smiled to himself as he strode back to his throne room. He paused to look up at the white pinnacle of Minas Anor, Tower of the Sun. All of a sudden, he saw a flash … a flash of blinding light from the top of the tower. It was not the reflected light of the dazzling sun. As he watched, the light flashed again, and Lord Ecthelion somehow knew what it was. The Palantir of Anarion. For centuries, never once had anyone dared to look into it. Until now.

His eyes filled with concern… Lord Ecthelion quickened his step and rushed to the white archway at the base of the tower. He began to run up the spiral stairway to the top of the tower, taking the steps three or four at a time…


	5. The Steward's Son 5

Denethor looked around him in suppressed excitement. He stood in the room at the top of the Minas Anor, the Tower of the Sun. The windows were thrown open – there was blue sky, pure air all around him. The cool wind stung at his cheeks. He felt exhilarated, alive.

He looked down at the Palantir of Anarion. Its surface was black, opaque as polished marble…but as he looked, it began to glow, to transform. Now it was as transparent as crystal, and through it he could see the shining sea … deep blue, flecked with silver in the sunlight.

Denethor drew a deep breath of pure pleasure. This was what he had dreamed of, as he had pored over the ancient tales in the library of Gondor… to cross the vast seas of water and of time to see the people and places that he had read of, with wonder, in the books of lore. He would cross the ages and go back in time to the shores of Cuiviénen and watch the first elves wake under the stars of Elbereth… He would sail Vingilótë westward over the sea with Eärendil…

All of a sudden, Denethor stiffened and looked around him, ill at ease. He had an odd feeling that he was being watched. Watched by a hostile presence… but there was no-one with him in the room at the top of the tower. Denethor shivered slightly, trying to shake off the feeling of unease that had all of a sudden overcome him. There was no-one here, as he could plainly see. And yet…

He could almost hear a voice… It did not speak to him, but seemed almost to be talking to itself, voicing an unknown presence's thoughts as it observed him…

"So this is he… the future Steward of Gondor! A sight guaranteed to fill the hearts of his enemies with fear..."

Denethor could feel a peal of hostile laughter reverberate around the room. He clutched at the marble base of the palantir, trying to steady himself as a wave of terror overcame him for some reason that he could not understand. What was he afraid of? There was no-one here. No-one here at all…

"Just look at him…"

There it was – that voice again…

"Lord Ecthelion's son. An individual more unlike the Steward of Gondor can hardly be imagined… one would expect Lord Ecthelion's son to be tall, handsome, a fine figure of a man… one would expect him to be strong, powerful…but look at him…"

Denethor shrugged it off. This was probably all in his imagination. This was what his father probably thought of him all the time…He was not going to allow himself to be bothered by childish taunts…Denethor laughed out loud.

The voice suddenly took on a menacing tone.

"And now, look at what Lord Ecthelion's pathetic heir will have to stand up to when he is Steward of Gondor…"

The voice paused. Denethor felt his gaze being diverted, pushed violently away from the blue ocean. He grimly fought back, straining to regain control over what he saw in the palantir, struggling to see only what he wished to see…

But a presence with a strength far greater than his own pushed his gaze deep into the land of Mordor. The dark shadow on the distant horizon drew closer and loomed menacingly above him. He could see the dark towers of Barad Dûr and Minas Morgul, fortresses of great strength. He could see troops that far surpassed those of Gondor both in numbers and in strength. He could see strange devices, forged in the depths of fiery mountains, created to destroy walls of stone and gates of steel.

Denethor fought to break free of the iron will that had him in its grip. And the voice began to speak again…

"A foolish dreamer are you… to fill your thoughts with beautiful visions of ages long gone… would you walk the shores of Cuiviénen and sail the oceans with Eärendil, while your enemy is waxing in strength? And will you still be lost in your dreams when he gathers his strength to strike you… oh, he will destroy the white marble walls of the city you love so much… he will burn Minas Tirith to dust and ashes.

Denethor clenched his teeth. His head was reeling, and yet he stood firm. He gritted his teeth, willing himself to stand up to the unseen power that taunted him, ridiculed him, filled him with despair.

"You do not know to whom you speak," he cried out, in a ringing voice that filled the room. "When Denethor is Steward, Gondor will stand tall; a bulwark against the East. And the valour of my people will defend all the Western lands from the Great Shadow…"

In the seeing stone, Denethor saw an eye rimmed with fire, looking at him with a hatred that froze his blood. He felt a surge of power hit him like a fist, between the eyes… he swayed and fell to the floor, cutting his wrist on the stone base of the palantir. His head reeled as he felt the unseen presence smite him again and again with its hostile will.

"Feel my power," the voice thundered, reverberated around the room. "Feel my power and despair…"

Denethor lay sprawled on the ground, struck down by a power that he could neither see nor understand. And still, he fought to resist it. "Despair? When I am Steward, your kingdom will be destroyed. Your kingdom will be…" He broke off. His words sounded hollow even to himself.

He painfully raised himself up and rested his head on the cold stone pillar that supported the palantir. Visions of the great strength of Mordor flooded into his mind, filling it with black despair. Feeling weak, pitiful and utterly humiliated, Denethor clung to base of the palantir, his slender frame racked with painful sobs that he wasn't even aware of. The most terrifying thing about the voice he had heard was that it had spoken the truth.

It was true… Gondor stood against a power far greater than itself. To fight this power would be as futile as crashing one's fist against a stone wall… In his frustration, Denethor hit his fist, already bleeding from its cut, against the stone base of the palantir… crashing it against the stone structure again and again until it throbbed with pain. And still he continued to hit his bruised, bleeding fist on the hard, cold stone, until a strong hand caught it in a firm, yet gentle grip, and a quiet voice bade him to stop.


	6. The Steward's Son 6

Denethor looked up at his father, feeling a mixture of relief and shame. His father's very presence was comforting to him. And yet, he wished that Lord Ecthelion, who had never appeared to have a good opinion of him, had not entered the room at this particular moment, to find his son in a pathetic state of depression and despair. This certainly would not improve his father's opinion of him.

Denethor forced himself to stand up and tried to look as nonchalant and composed as he could. "I'm all right, now," he said.

He longed to pour out all his fears and worries to his father, who stood beside him, a tall, reassuring presence, resplendent in shining armour, his hand holding his son's clenched fist in a comforting grip. But what would his father think of him? His father had in the past made no secret of the fact that he expected his son to be brave and valiant. And at the present moment Denethor felt that he had never been further from what his father wanted him to be. He felt weak and ill, and to his horror, he felt his eyes filling with tears of humiliation. For a wild moment, he considered doing what Boromir would have done under similar circumstances – running out of the room. But Lord Ecthelion had his hand in a firm grip and there was no escape. Next time, he would try that on Boromir – take hold of his hand before he could run away. Denethor smiled to himself.

Looking at his son, Lord Ecthelion was relieved to see something other than despair on his expressive face. "Of what are you thinking," he asked, wishing to keep his son's mind on whatever positive thought was occupying it now.

"I was thinking of Boromir, father. You know, how he runs away when he doesn't want me to see him in tears…"

"And how often do you reduce him to tears," asked Lord Ecthelion sharply.

"I… I don't know…"

Denethor swore to himself, his eyes filling with tears again. It was just like his father to strike him when he was down. When he was in despair over the enemy's immense power, his father had reminded him of his other great source of despair… his poor relationship with his son.

"So you find it amusing to see a young child in tears?"

"No, no… not at all… Something has been worrying him father. But he refuses to tell me what it is. Whenever I reach out to him, he runs away from me…Father, how do you tell a son that he shouldn't be afraid to reveal a weakness to a loving father…"

"I do not know – I have spent close to thirty years now trying to tell my own son the same thing…"

Denethor walked to a window and stood there, motionless, looking out. "You have no respect for the weak and the inept," he said at last.

"My son, if I respect those who are brave and capable, it does not mean that I would ridicule the weak and inept."

"No, you are much too polite to do that. You would treat them with great courtesy and then laugh at them behind their backs."

Lord Ecthelion noticed that his son's fists were clenched. "Denethor, we are now speaking of our own sons, neither of whom is weak and inept…"

Denethor's response was to crash his fist on the stone window sill.

He turned on his father, his eyes burning with rage. "I know what you think of me. Do not try to hide it. You cannot hope to undo with a few words an impression that took a lifetime to create… I know what you think of me. I know it from the way you look at me; from the way you speak to me; from the way you speak of me…

If you had shown me how to be a good father, I would now know how to be a good father to my own son, but I do not. And I wish I did… how I wish I did...

He looks at me with eyes full of mistrust…he runs away from me when I reach out to him… I hate him, father. I hate him as much as I hate you."

Lord Ecthelion's eyes blazed, too.

"Denethor, as you have spent your life responding with hatred to your father's love, you fully deserve to have a son who does the same to you."

Lord Ecthelion walked out of the room. Denethor heard his firm footsteps descending the stairs of the tower as he restlessly paced about the room again alone.


	7. The Steward's Son 7

I'd like to acknowledge the help of Beren Elaran, whose beautiful Sindarin translation appears in this chapter. He has translated the song "All through the Night," (adapt. and arr. by Yarrow / Stookey / Travers) from the album "Peter, Paul and Mommy" by Peter, Paul and Mary. Thank you, Beren Elaran!

The Steward's Son  
Chapter 7

As he strode away, Lord Ecthelion paused for a moment to look up at Minas Anor, now glowing rosy-hued as the sun sank low to the west of Mount Mindolluin.

At the top of the tower, Denethor leaned on the stone window sill, watching the fiery orb of the sun sink slowly down towards the white mountains, painting the sky in lurid, shrieking shades of melon, pink and gold. This, thought Denethor, was how an artist would paint a scream. A streak of painfully vivid colour cutting through the dull leaden sky like a knife. A slash here, a slash there, in a mouldy grey curtain : the colour bleeding out of the gaping rents and gashes like pain made visible, liquid fire that dazzled his eyes, hurting them with its luminous intensity. He turned away, shading his eyes, and some minutes later found himself aimlessly walking the stone streets of Minas Tirith, watching the windows of the great stone city light up as darkness fell.

A gust of wind swirled around him, pleasantly cool, as he walked the familiar streets of the city he loved. The inky slopes of Mindolluin rose up behind the great walled city and the vast fields of the Pelennor lay spread out at her feet. Now, in the darkening twilight, Minas Tirith looked beautiful – her stone walls splashed with warm, flickering lamplight, her streets silvered by the cool white rays of the moon.

"Finduilas," breathed Denethor, drinking in the sights and sounds of Minas Tirith in the twilight, "…oh, Finduilas, why do you not love Minas Tirith as I do?"

He saw the star of Eärendil hanging low in the west. "And look," he said, still talking to her, although she wasn't there, "…look, Finduilas, Gil Estel shines on Minas Tirith, filling our hearts with hope…"

Denethor leaned out over a low stone wall and looked out into the night. All was still now. Above and below him shone the warm yellow lamps and candles of Minas Tirith. It was a cool, clear night and the moon hung like a disc of polished silver in the velvety black vault of the sky. The sky was so clear tonight…he could see hundreds, millions of stars…

"A Elbereth Gilthoniel…"

Denethor retraced his steps, and started to walk back… past the glowing lamplit windows of valiant warriors, garrulous grandmothers and softly sleeping children. The people of Minas Tirith. He would give everything he had and more to keep them safe.

Coming to his own window, Denethor stopped and looked up at it, his face bathed in the warm glow that diffused out of it into the still night air. Denethor breathed in the scent of Finduilas' honeysuckle vine, and watched the fireflies twinkle in and out of it, like tiny stars.

He knew they were in there –they made a beautiful picture in his mind's eye – Finduilas with both sons held close, all three of them, fast asleep. He walked inside, and the picture was real.

She was asleep – he could hear her soft breathing. All night, she would drift through dreams of magnolias and wisteria and white lilies glowing in the moonlight. And in the morning, she would wake, fresh and at peace with the world. And as the warm sunlight would start to filter into the room through the honeysuckle vine, she would look at him, and she would smile.

He bent down to kiss her, but the baby was in the way, so he kissed Faramir instead.

That was a mistake. Faramir got up with a start and wailed in outraged anguish at having been thus rudely awoken.

"No… don't get up, I'll take care of him," said Denethor to Finduilas. He scooped the baby up in his arms and ran out of the room with him, trying to get him out of Finduilas' earshot, so she could go back to sleep.

He helplessly wandered the stone corridors, the moonlight slanting in through the massive windows, trying to soothe and calm his angry son.

"Sh, shhh, Faramir," he whispered desperately, "You'll wake your mother…"

"And your grandfather, too," said a quiet voice behind him.

"I'm sorry, father," said Denethor, wildly rocking the screaming bundle. "Did he wake you?"

Lord Ecthelion shook his head, as he gently took his anguished grandson from his equally anguished son. "No, not at all," he said. "I wasn't asleep…"

He gently laid the baby's head on his shoulder and stroked the tiny form. The volume of Faramir's wails began to lessen almost immediately. Denethor staggered wearily into his father's room and flopped down onto his father's bed, burying his face in the pillow and pulling his father's blanket up over his ears to shut out the sound of Faramir's shrill, insistent wails. But soon, the baby began to quieten down as Lord Ecthelion sang softly to him in the elven tongue.

"Losto hên nín, le tolo sîdh, trî, trî i dhû  
Elbereth le beriatha, trî, trî i dhû"

Something about the song held his attention – strangely, he seemed to know every word of it…

"Dínen i lui gwannol  
Amon ah imloth mi lostad caedol  
Im, mellon nín, dirith hebiel, trî, trî i dhû"

But how did he know the words? Could his father have sung it to him as a child? Somehow he could not imagine himself being rocked as tenderly as his father was rocking Faramir now. Or could he?

"Calad Ithil penna na le, trî, trî i dhû  
Ned lostad lín tiriel le, trî, trî i dhû"

Softly, hesitantly, he began to sing along. His father turned and smiled, still gently stroking the baby's little back.

"Dínen i lui gwannol  
Amon ah imloth mi lostad caedol"

Could it be, wondered Lord Ecthelion, that his son still remembered a song that he had sung to him when he was a child? No… perhaps he had learnt it recently from Finduilas…

"Im, mellon nín, dirith hebiel, trî, trî i dhû"

Lord Ecthelion gently lowered the baby onto the bed, next to his son, who hurriedly moved out of the way.

"Nay, stay, my child. Would you not like him to sleep beside you?"

Denethor got out of bed, carefully avoiding the baby. "I'd love to, father, but he wouldn't. I… I just kissed him, and he started howling like that…"

Lord Ecthelion sensed that this trivial incident had somehow upset his son more than anything else that had happened that day.

"He was just sleepy, that's all."

"No, father… this one hates me as much as the other one does… and I was hoping so much that he wouldn't…"

Denethor sat down in front of the fire, his head bowed down on his knees. "I don't understand what they want from me… and I don't know how to give it to them…"

Lord Ecthelion placed a reassuring hand on his son's back. Denethor's shoulders were shaking, trembling. "Losto hên nín," he said softly.

"What does that mean, father?"

"When Finduilas taught you the song, didn't she teach you what it meant?"

"I didn't learn it from her…"

"You remember it, then, after so long…" Lord Ecthelion instinctively stroked his son's back forgetting for a moment that Denethor was no longer a baby, but was in fact a cynical adult with a biting tongue and a mocking smile.

"What does it mean," he asked again.

"I'll sing you my translation of it," said Lord Ecthelion, "but why don't you get into bed first…"

Denethor rather reluctantly got into bed beside his son, half expecting him to burst into loud wails again. To his utter amazement, Faramir smiled in his sleep, and snuggled up close to his father's warmth, his tiny fist grabbing a small handful of his father's tunic.

Denethor held the precious bundle close to him, savouring, drinking in the baby acceptance of him like fine wine that went to his head, and made him feel ridiculously elated.

"I don't think he hates me after all…"

Lord Ecthelion smiled. "Of course not. When they're young, it's so easy… all it takes is a story, a song or a hug… But when they get older, it's so much more difficult."

Denethor looked up sharply. Was this an accusation of sorts? He could not see his father's face. Lord Ecthelion stared unseeingly into the fire, his back to his son.

"Father… all it takes is… if it were possible…"

Denethor paused. This was an earnest request, and he did not want it to sound like an accusation.

"Yes?"

His father was looking at him, now.

"… if you could take away the burden, the pressure of your expectations…"

Lord Ecthelion looked at his son thoughtfully. But Denethor was apparently staring with great interest at something outside the window.

"When my son was an infant," said Lord Ecthelion, "I would take him in my arms and I would dream… I would dream of him growing up to be a tall, kingly warrior with a bright sword, brave and valiant. Tell me, my son, was it wrong for a father to dream of his son's greatness, and to work with him to achieve it…  
I remember the times when I would ride back from Osgiliath, or Cair Andros, or from… wherever I'd been, and I'd try to look courageous, for my men, but I'd be inwardly weeping. Not out of weariness, or the great pain of my battle-wounds, but out of despair… despair at the great strength of the power that I was to spend my life battling…  
And I would think of my tiny son, sleeping in his little cradle at home, and I would curse the enemy, curse him thus… 'One day,' I would say, 'when my son is Steward of Gondor, you will be broken, you will be destroyed!'"

"Father, no mortal could ever be strong enough to stand up to that power…I understood that today, when I looked into the seeing stone."

"Perhaps it was foolish, or wrong, to hope that I could build you up to be strong enough to take on that power and defeat it. But…" Lord Ecthelion suddenly looked his son straight in the eye. "But what is the alternative, my son? Are we to stand by, cowering in fear as he waxes in strength? Should we not arm ourselves to stand up to him?"

Denethor nodded, thoughtfully. So this was the reason why his father had pushed him beyond the limits of his endurance. He had always thought that it was because his father was ashamed of him…

"And you have seen, Denethor," said Lord Ecthelion,"how hard I have worked to build our army in strength… I have recruited men from the far corners of Middle Earth – worthy men, warriors, brave and strong…"

"And looking at all these fine new soldiers, you could not help but notice how weak and inept your own son looked beside them," said Denethor.

Lord Ecthelion stared into the fire again, a look of indescribable pain in his dark eyes. He could not with truth deny what his son had said.

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All through the Night

Original lyrics

Sleep my child and peace attend thee, all through the night.  
Guardian angels God will send thee, all through the night.  
Soft the drowsy hours are creeping,  
Hill and dale in slumber steeping  
I, my loved one, watch am keeping, all through the night.

Angels watching ever 'round thee, all through the night  
In thy slumbers close surround thee, all through the night  
Soft the drowsy hours are creeping,  
Hill and dale in slumber steeping  
I, my loved one, watch am keeping, all through the night.

Translation, by Beren Elaran

Losto hên nín, le tolo sîdh, trî, trî i dhû.  
Sleep child mine, (to) thee come peace, through, through the night.

Elbereth le beriatha, trî, trî i dhû.  
Elbereth thee will guard, through, through the night.

Dínen i lui gwannol  
Silently the hours departing,

Amon ah imloth mi lostad caedol.  
Hill and valley amid sleep lying.

Im, mellon nín, dirith hebiel, trî, trî i dhû.  
I, love mine, watch (am) keeping, through, through the night.

Calad Ithil penna na le, trî, trî i dhû.  
Light of Moon slants-down by you, through, through the night.

Ned lostad lín tiriel le, trî, trî i dhû.  
During sleep yours watching you, through, through the night.

Dínen i lui gwannol,  
Amon ah imloth mi lostad caedol.  
Im, mellon nín, tirith hebiel, trî, trî i dhû.

caeda- is a reconstructed verb from Q caita- by David Salo.


	8. The Steward's Son 8

"Tell me, Denethor," asked Lord Ecthelion, looking up from the hearth, into which he had been staring thoughtfully, "what did you see in that accursed stone of wizardry?"

"You know better than I do, father, the power of the Unnamed – for you have spent a lifetime battling it. But I …I saw it for the first time today. And I could feel it – I could feel his will working against mine. And I fought it like a stray dog on the street – snarling, biting, and straining my every nerve against it. It was no use… I saw only what he wanted me to see - his huge armies, his great weapons, his strange, mysterious powers - and I was afraid."

There was a gentle knock at the door.

"It must be Finduilas," said Denethor. "Looking for Faramir…"

Lord Ecthelion opened the door. "Come in, my child, they are here."

Finduilas smiled up at Denethor's father. "I am sorry that you were disturbed, father," she said, although she knew that no apology was needed. Lord Ecthelion loved the company of both Boromir and Faramir at any time of day or night.

"Nay," he said, smiling. "It was a pleasure to have them here with me. And while I know that you must take your baby with you, I ask your permission to keep mine here for the night."

"I don't understand…oh, I do!" She burst out laughing. "It's just that I somehow cannot think of him as a baby, father."

Lord Ecthelion smiled. "I always thought that the nickname his friends gave him, when he was a boy, was most appropriate…"

"A nickname? But I do not know it…"

"Did he never tell you? He was called 'Venom' …"

Finduilas' clear laugh rang out again as she gently took Faramir from Denethor's arms.

"Good night, Venom," she said.

"Ah, father, why did you tell her about that," asked Denethor. But his eyes were smiling as he kissed her goodnight.

"Good night, father," said Finduilas.

"Good night, my child," said Lord Ecthelion kindly, and waited at the door until she was out of sight.

Turning back into the room, he found that his son had got out of bed and was restlessly pacing the room.

"Get back into bed, Denethor."

"It's no use. I haven't slept for weeks…"

"What has been worrying you? I've noticed that you've been restless, preoccupied…"

"It's not any one thing… it seems like everywhere I look, things are breaking up, falling apart… the very city we live in - under threat from a power to great for a mortal man to vanquish… Finduilas – I see her becoming weaker, more fragile every day…Boromir – growing up so sullen, so hostile… and you father – why do you keep saying, over and over again, that you're not going to live much longer…  
I see myself – without you, without Finduilas, without my sons…watching Minas Tirith burning to the ground and then slinking away to some stinking hole in the wilderness, there to hide myself…  
Father – what a horrible day today has been."

Denethor clenched his fists and drew a deep breath. It would not do to give in to despair. But how much simpler life had been when he was "Venom" – those had been good days, when the only problem he'd had to solve was figuring out what game to play with his friends that day…

"You remember when I was Venom, father?"

Those were the days when there had always been someone to put things right when they went wrong…he would run to his mother, or more often, his father. It was odd, the things he remembered now… the fresh, clean smell of his father's white linen tunic as he leaned his face against its softness; and the sound of his father's voice… it had been a different voice then - gentle, humorous and kindly…

Almost without thinking, he said aloud, "Father, what happened since then?"

Lord Ecthelion sighed. "Perhaps I asked too much of you…"

"Father, do you remember the first time you sent me to Osgiliath as your Captain?"

"Yes, but…"

"I'll never forget the way you looked at me on my return…" Denethor remembered again the cold, stern eyes that rebuked him for his first failure… "Speaking as the Steward of Gondor to his Captain, you said that I was the most inexperienced, inept Captain that ever served Gondor…"

"Denethor, must you remember and forever repeat every unkind word I have ever regretted uttering?"

"You may voice your displeasure to those who are casual and careless in carrying out your commands…" Denethor's voice shook with anger. "…but how could you do that to me… father, I put my heart and soul into every task you ever set me. You've changed so much…"

Denethor felt a hand on his shoulder as he glared out of the window into the darkness. His father's touch turned into an embrace. Out of the mists of the distant past, a familiar presence had materialised into the present and become real again. Venom's kindly father, who had for many years been replaced by a grim military taskmaster, suddenly stood beside him again, comforting him in his anger and his pain. "Where did you come from," asked Denethor,"I missed you so much…"

"Venom," said Lord Ecthelion, gently, "I could have fussed over you and coddled you and brought you up to be a coward of the greatest renown – would you have preferred that?"

"Yes," said Denethor, grinning into the fresh–smelling white linen. Lord Ecthelion smiled and shook his head in amusement. He gave his son a mock cuff on the ear and set him free.

"Denethor," he said a moment later, rather more seriously, "There is something I would like you to know…"

"What is it, father?"

"Denethor, you will no longer put your heart and soul into trying to be what I want you to be… but I will give everything I have to help you be what you want to be."

Whatever Denethor had expected to hear, it had not been this. He smiled suddenly at his father. "If I'm going to spend the night with you," he said, in a somewhat shaky voice, "I'll need to hear a story, or at least a song…"

He got into bed and looked up at his father expectantly. Lord Ecthelion cleared his throat, and fell silent again, feeling somewhat embarrassed to tell a child's story to his adult son. He smiled at his son, cleared his throat again, and with the air of a poet declaiming a great work, began:

"Stinker, Venom and Blob one night  
Sailed to sea in a shoe -  
Sailed on a river of crystal light  
Into a sea of dew…"

Bobbing along on the current of his father's gentle voice, Denethor drifted off into peaceful sleep. And in his dreams, a little boy with a toy sword went out to sea in a giant wooden shoe with billowing yellow sails and a plain silver standard fluttering in the wind. On his travels he and his trusty companions, Stinker and Blob, fearlessly took on golden dragons, purple trolls and green goblins, and vanquished them, every one.

Venom sailed again.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lord Ecthelion's poem is a quotation from "Wynken, Blynken and Nod (Dutch Lullaby)" by Eugene Field, from his collection "Poems of Childhood."


	9. The Steward's Son 9

After a pleasant peaceful morning spent relaxing alone in his father's room, Denethor decided that it was time to go back to his family once more. And looking at Finduilas, all his worries immediately flooded back into his mind.

"Why do you look so tired, Finduilas? Are you unwell, my love?"

"No, it's Boromir. Boromir is unwell… Denethor, if I don't wake up in the morning with you beside me, if I don't wake up in your arms, my whole day goes wrong…"

Denethor smiled. "Am I to understand that Boromir fell ill because you didn't wake up in my arms? I never knew a lady to be so illogical…"

"Sometimes, it all becomes too much for me," she said. "Sometimes I need to take a break from being worried…"

"Then you must," he said, gently. "Finduilas do you remember how you used to throw away your heavy woman's robes, and run on the beaches of Dol Amroth in your brother's tunic and breeches?"

"I do…"

"And before the children were born, we would run together up the slopes of Mindolluin to places fresh and green…"

"Those were good days, Denethor…"

Denethor was rummaging among his clothes, looking for his softest, most comfortable tunic.

"Here you are," he said. "Faramir is with Ioreth, isn't he? I'll take care of Boromir. Why don't you forget about us for a while and run up the slopes of Mindolluin…"

She changed into his clothes and looked even more beautiful in them than she had looked in her woman's robes.

"Denethor," she said, and burst out laughing. "We have been married for so many years now, and still you look at me like a schoolboy in love…"

"Am I not allowed to admire my beautiful wife?"

"Well, if you look at me like that, I won't be able to leave you and go away…"

"Don't, then…"

"Ah, but I must…"

"Well, goodbye, then, and don't rush back, Finduilas. Take your time…"

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Denethor walked to Boromir's room, feeling somewhat nervous. His sullen son was not the easiest person to get on with even when he was well, and now that he was ill…

He opened the door quietly and looked in. Fortunately, the child was asleep.

Denethor sat down beside the sleeping child and stroked his forehead so gently that that Boromir thought it was his mother beside him. A look of content spread over his face. "Mummy," he murmured. And then he opened his eyes and the contented look faded away in an instant.

"I'm sorry," said Denethor apologetically, "you see, mummy had to go out for a little while, so I'm going to be with you this afternoon."

Denethor had expected a tantrum, or at the very least a sullen glare, but the response he actually got was far worse. The child began to cry, quietly. A simple expression of sheer misery. Boromir was ill. He'd wanted mummy. And he'd got father instead.

There was no point in taking offence. He had to comfort his son. Denethor gently lifted Boromir onto his lap, placed the child's head on his shoulder and held him close. Boromir clung to his father, feeling rather confused. Was this the same person who had hit him as if he hated him, just yesterday, or was it the day before?

With the directness of a child, he asked his father a straight question. "Father, do you love me or hate me? I don't understand…"

Denethor decided that in the present situation, a lie would be the most appropriate response. "I love you, Boromir," he said. But was it a lie? He didn't really hate Boromir. He was just hurt. Hurt that the child did not respond to him the way he did to Finduilas. And it genuinely worried him to see his son cry in this way… he could see that it was not just that Boromir was ill and wanted his mother.

Of late he had noticed that Boromir had seemed miserable, irritable and confused – the child's behaviour had been much more objectionable than usual. He'd tried asking his wife about it, but Finduilas always refused to admit that her son was in any way annoying. Although he knew that he was not Boromir's favourite parent, he wondered if there was anything he could do to help…

"Boromir…"

"Yes, father?"

"Is something wrong, Boromir? Is something worrying you, my child?"

"No, father."

Denethor sighed. After all, what could he expect? He was the last person that Boromir would talk to. But he wanted the child to talk to someone.

"Would you tell mummy about it, Boromir? Or Grandfather?"

"What?"

"About this thing that's worrying you?"

"There isn't anything, father…"

The child was crying again. 'I must be the most inept parent alive,' thought Denethor. He hadn't meant to make him cry – he'd only been trying to help. He shouldn't have cross-questioned the child like that. Not knowing what to say, he picked Boromir up in his strong arms and walked about the room, holding the little form, racked with huge sobs, in a tender, comforting grip.

"Mummy says I'm too big to be carried."

"Well, father says you're still small enough."

Ha! Here was something he could do for Boromir that Finduilas couldn't.

"Father…"

"Yes?"

"Sometimes I can't tell mummy things…"

"Why, Boromir?"

"Because mummy's so good, you can't tell her about something bad you're thinking…"

Denethor understood perfectly what the child meant. He sometimes found it difficult to talk to Finduilas, himself. She was so straight, so clean, that he often felt ashamed to pour out his thoughts to her. But the door to Boromir's thoughts had opened, just a crack. Denethor carefully tried to pry it open a little wider.

"Boromir… you know, father isn't so good. Whatever you're thinking about, you can be sure I've thought something worse."

The door opened wide…

"Father… I hate Faramir."

Boromir cowered in his father's arms as if waiting for his father to strike him.

"You hate Faramir?"

"I… I want mummy to myself…father, you don't understand…"

But Boromir's father did understand. He had had his wife to himself until Boromir had been born, and he had always grudged the child all the time and attention that Finduilas had given him. Denethor held his son so tightly that he almost suffocated him.

"Is that all my child? I understand, Boromir, I really do understand…"

"Father, now it's your turn."

"My turn?"

"What have you thought that was worse than that?

He could think of plenty of answers to that. But there wasn't a single one appropriate enough to share with Boromir.

"Well, er…"

Unless he gave the child some sort of an answer, he'd be letting him down. Perhaps a watered down version of the truth would do…

"Boromir, I … er… used to want your mummy to myself, too. Er… when you were born."

Used to? He still did.

"Not any more, of course," he added, as his son gave him a shocked, hurt stare.

What was he doing? This was most definitely the wrong thing to say to the child. But strangely enough, Boromir's shocked look had passed. He even seemed to understand.

"You mean, like I hate Faramir?"

"Something like that. But that was long ago. I don't think of you like that any more…"

I swear I don't. I swear I don't. Forgive me, Boromir.

Boromir wriggled out of his father's arms and padded about the floor thoughtfully. Denethor sat down wearily on his son's bed. After all the nasty, jealous things he'd thought about his son, had he any right to expect his son to love him? And yet he wanted the child's love, so much… But he had no right to ask for it.

"Father?"

"Yes?"

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, Boromir. I'm just a little tired..."

"Why don't you go to your room and go to sleep, father?"

Faramir and Ioreth would be back by now. "Well, you see, Faramir's in my room and he keeps screaming all the time. Sometimes, Boromir, I want to scream, too."

Why was he telling the child all this? Maybe it was because he had finally found someone understanding to talk to. Someone who wasn't good all the time, like Finduilas. Someone as offensive as himself. His own son.

"Would you like to rest with me, father? In my bed? Would that help?"

"It would help a lot. Thank you, Boromir."

Boromir's bed was surprisingly comfortable.

"Father?"

"Mmmmm?"

"You don't hate me any more, do you?"

"Of course not!"

This time, Denethor really meant it. Boromir was silent for a while. Then…

"Father?"

"Yes?"

"After I told you my secret, I'm not angry with Faramir any more."

"I'm so glad to hear that, Boromir."

He really was. He wanted his sons to grow up as friends…

"Boromir, when he grows up, he's going to be your best friend… he's going to learn everything from you… and he's going to love you so much…"

Boromir considered this.

"You mean, like you hated me at first and then when I grew up, I started to be friends with you…"

What? Had he heard his son right? There was nothing like a direct question. The words that Boromir had used would serve for him, too.

"Boromir, do you … er… love me or hate me?"

"I hate you, father," chuckled the child.

Denethor felt two small arms creep around his neck.

"Father," said Boromir, contentedly.

Denethor smiled. "That's me."


	10. The Steward's Son 10

This was not the first time that he had dreamt of death. Every man had his own image of death, but for Faramir it was always a wave… a gigantic wave rising out of the sea, rearing a terrifying head of water high into the air. A vicious creature, its mouth flecked with white foam, it would come forth, devouring everything in its path…

Faramir awoke, drenched with sweat, shaking. The dream was gone, but the terror remained.

He got out of bed and stumbled through the dark to his brother's room. Boromir's door was always unlocked. For him. Faramir opened it a little noisily, half-trying to wake his brother. But Boromir was never an easy person to wake. He worked hard and slept hard. His rhythmic breathing stayed rhythmic.

Faramir sat down in front of his brother's dying fire, too tired to try to revive it. He couldn't very well wake Boromir and say to him, "I'm miserable, I can't sleep, I need someone to comfort me…" For Boromir was at peace, comfortably asleep, and didn't need someone to make him miserable.

His father sometimes said that Boromir was like his mother. Finduilas of Amroth, said Denethor, had always slept more peacefully than anyone he had ever known. But Faramir had never known his mother. He hadn't realised, when he was just a few years old, that this was all the time he would get with her. And so he hadn't taken the time to store up in his memory the look on her face, the touch of her hand or the sound of her voice…

"Faramir?"

Faramir uttered an inarticulate grunt in response. Now that he was twenty years old, why would he still need a mother to comfort him?

"Did you have that dream again, Faramir?"

"No," he answered. It was childish to have nightmares. But it was still more childish to lie to Boromir…

His brother was with difficulty hauling his large muscular frame out of bed. He padded across the room, dragging a few odd bedclothes in his wake, and flopped down on the floor next to Faramir. 'Even when we're sitting down,' thought Faramir, 'he's taller than I am.'

"Boromir…"

"Hmm?"

"Do you remember mother? Sometimes I try to remember how she looked but I can't seem to…" His voice trailed off. He shouldn't have said that. It wasn't right to jerk his brother forcibly out of peaceful slumber and plunge him headlong into a torrent of icy-cold misery.

"Do I remember mother?" Boromir repeated his brother's question, and what a ridiculous question it seemed to be. "How could I possibly forget Mummy," he asked. "And how could you not remember her, Faramir…" Boromir immediately regretted having said that.

Faramir had been so young… not much more than a baby. He couldn't be expected to remember Mummy… he probably did not remember grandfather, either. And he didn't know what father had been like then. Father used to be warm and smiling when Mummy was alive. And before Faramir was old enough to be aware of things, the old life had been destroyed. He would never know it.

Faramir stood up and quietly left the room. He was not one to indulge in emotional storms, or displays of temper.

Boromir watched as his brother left the room. Every night Faramir came to him, looking for something. And what could he do for him? He couldn't be Mummy, or Grandfather to him or even father as he used to be…

Boromir sat in front of his dead fire, bent with weeping. He had said the wrong thing again. But at some unknown hour of the night, when he was half asleep, how could Faramir expect him to say all the right things?

After a while, he heard the door again. Faramir had come back. I wish he'd leave me alone, thought Boromir. I'm sure I'll say the wrong thing again.

"Boromir, I'm sorry…" said Faramir. "Every night I wake you up and talk about things you don't need to hear."

"You didn't wake me up," answered Boromir. "And all I do is listen. I don't seem to be able to make things better for you…"

Well, at least there's someone still around who wants to make things better, thought Faramir. Boromir was his family… his one-man family. Boromir, with all his faults, was father, mother, grandfather and brother to him, all in one. Although his brother was incapable of any coherent verbal expression of his affection, Faramir knew that it was there; it was real. As he reassuringly clasped his brother's clenched fist in his own hand, Faramir mentally thanked whoever it was up there that had sent him a brother who cared so much for him. "A Elbereth Gilthoniel…" he breathed.

Faramir did not know that it was a not-so-divine power that had given him the gift that he was so grateful for… he did not know that it was a power far less than divine who had worked patiently, many years ago, to turn a sullen little boy who hated his brother into the Boromir he now knew.


End file.
